


Your gift awaits

by Kalendeer



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:53:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28273407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/pseuds/Kalendeer
Summary: Of the Fëanorian delegation, Maedhros is, as always, the only one to bow – but as always, it is such a sight that it does not really matter.
Relationships: Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34
Collections: A Feast of Ashes Verse, Tolkien Secret Santa 2020





	Your gift awaits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firstamazon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstamazon/gifts).



> Happy Xmas dearest FirstAmazon <3 I was SO happy to be your Secret Santa this year! And it was extremely hard not to spoil that I was, knowing how chatty I usually am!
> 
> Hope you have a good read !

The small grove of trees is nondescript, and feels as if nothing ever happened, will ever happen there but the song of the wind in the branches of oaks and pine trees. Birds sing in the canopy, and insects do the same below, a repetitive crrr crrr crrr that soothes the nerves. In Fingolfin’s mind eyes the grove is full of flowers, of a fiery orange, born of golden blood and warm light; the sun bathes his face.

He stands to the sound of trumpets. Bits of grass are clinging to his braids; he straightens his clothes with a Command from his voice.

The High King reaches the stairs of his great hall just in time to see the great doors of Barad Eithel open. Hooves clatter on the drawbridge and two dozen of mounted warriors pour in, lords and lady from all the principalities of Eastern Beleriand bearing the seven banners of Fëanor and his sons. At the front rides their High Prince, and Fingolfin barely suppresses his smile at the sight: lush hair like a dancing flame, red and fully braided with gold ribbons, eyes of star-kissed diamonds, a face many girls would fall for despite the fading scars still clinging to its edges.

Of the Fëanorian delegation, Maedhros is, as always, the only one to bow – but as always, it is such a sight that it does not really matter.

***

They wait until they are alone, in the wild garden that is Fingolfin’s retreat, to drop their princely masks and polite words to fall into each other’s arms. For a long time they stay still, embracing each other, breathing deep with their eyes closed, their spirits reaching, patting, checking for cracks and new wounds. Only when this routine is done do they gently push each other away.

_“I am glad to find you well.”_

_“And I you.”_

_“I have a gift for you.”_

_“Nothing can be more precious than you being there.”_

And in Fingolfin’s steel grey eyes, it is obvious what gift he wishes for – to return in Maedhros’ arms, to let his brow rest in the crook of his High Prince’s neck, to breathe in the smells of him and let go of the mantle of the king.

***

Every eyes are on Maedhros during the feast.

As they should. He is unmarried, single, and since his scars have faded, unquestionably gorgeous.

The High Prince dances with everyone who asks. He is polite, impeccable, the consummate diplomat – but he is never warm as a dancing flame. He does not burn the hands of the ladies and his voice is not honey when he laughs to the lords’ pleasantries.

***

Night comes.

The only eyes resting on Maedhros are Fingolfin’s own, now, when the High Prince opens the secret door at the end of the cramped hallway connecting their rooms. And this is why the smile is half mocking now, the eyes glittering with who knows what. The true Maedhros is no cool water. Life turned him into biting metal, just like it turned Fingolfin into ice.

Fingolfin pretends he does not care… much. He has papers to review, and the fire in his chest has not melted his icy exterior yet. He reads, and he dips his feather into dark ink, and he feigns to ignore Maedhros’ fingers on his shoulder. He makes notes, signs, puts the feather down, and moves not when those fingers gather his hair away from his neck. Fingolfin’s hands are not shaking when he takes a bead of wax, let it fall in a small spoon and puts it above a candle to melt.

“Matters of state?”

“Of the greatest importance.” Of course not. Or Fingolfin would not risk the integrity of the documents, with Maedhros around…

In the spoon, the wax melts into dark blue liquid, hot as the High Prince’s breathe against the back of Fingolfin’s neck. “Does my King need some help in dealing with those?” His hand wraps around Fingolfin’s before he can answer, guiding it above the paper; the king lets him, and lets him guide him still to pour the hot wax unto the page. “Where is the seal?”

“Ebony box,” Fingolfin answers, voice as steady as he can despite the fleeting kisses grazing his neck.

Maedhros deftly opens the box, takes out the seal, set the engraved square into the cooling wax. “Done,” he purrs, as if he had not just committed treason by laying hands on what is Fingolfin’s alone – but they are alone, and such things do not matter. “Anything else that needs the King’s attention?”

“Plenty.”

“How offending. I was so looking forward to joining you in those immaculate sheets.”

“Duty commands us,” Fingolfin says. Doing is best to ignore the hand on his chest, sneaking into his clothes, sneaking _down_. “I know I can trust my High Prince to understand how such matter can weight on my mind…”

“Do they weight heavier than my above yours?” A low chuckle. “I have waited all afternoon, all evening…”

And so did Fingolfin, of course.

This is all a game. Delayed pleasure – not so delayed, considering what Maedhros’ fingers are doing… “You promised me a gift, my Prince.”

“Indeed, your Majesty.”

“I have been longing to unpack it for hours…”

“Did you?” Now there is honey in the redhead’s voice, and the touch of his skin’s upon Fingolfin’s is as fire. “I think your gift is unpacking itself.”

“How generous of him.”

“Indeed.” The tip of a tongue follows the curve of the ear, and then let hot breath runs over the wet skin. “Your gift… shall wait for you in bed, your Majesty.”

***

Red hair, like the blood of volcanos spilling in rivers on snow – red hair, soft and clinging to Fingolfin’s fingers as he toys with a lock.

It is late. Time to sleep. But elves feed on dreams as much as on food, water and rest, and the High King feels more rejuvenated by the sight of his lover’s body than by any sustenance Arda may offer.

Fingolfin gathers the hair, crimson silk rolling over milk skin, and closes the space between his chest and Maedhros’ back. The younger elf sighs and moves slightly against him. Skin against skin, warm, his nose filled by the scent of his lover, Fingolfin closes his eyes.

***

Sunlight looks good on the prince. The rays of dawn shine in the lazy curls of his hair as they would on the finest spun copper, and the remnants of sleep make his eyes softer than they should.

Maedhros sits by one of the great windows overlooking Ard Galen. Silent. Pensive, in a peaceful way.

If only they could stay that way forever – but they cannot, not with how Beleriand is, not with the crown resting heavy on their head: the High King and his High Prince, as much of a power as Fingolfin is, though he pretends he is not.

Fingolfin joins Maedhros by the window. The sun is well above the horizon, already, but its light is still golden and soft. He says nothing; sometimes, only silence fits; silence and an embrace, lips settling against a neck in a feather kiss.

And the pretense they will both last forever.


End file.
